Wild Texas Rose by Martha Hix

bride-to-be?
    Whit groaned and clenched his teeth. Joe. The gullible young fool who wanted Mariah for the rest of his life, whereas Whit only needed his fill of her.
    This disconcerting fascination with the auburn-haired witch had to cease and Whit was determined it would.
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    The next morning as she tried to eat the morning meal at Lois’s big round table, Gail was nursing the worst hangover of her life. She yearned for a hair of the dog that bit her last night.
    She eyed the only other occupant of the dining room. After asking about her health, which she had glossed over, Whit hadn’t said a word all morning. He was devouring a huge plate of steak and eggs. What was wrong with him? Usually he had a disgustingly cheerful morning demeanor.
    â€œWhit, have you got a bottle in your room? I could sure use a drink.”
    â€œNo.” He downed a cup of steaming coffee. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. Your drinking’s getting out of hand, Gail Ann.”
    When he called her by her full name, she knew he meant business, but she seethed nonetheless. How dare he! Forcing nonchalance, she said, “You’re making too much of it.”
    â€œAm I? Ed says you’re in the corn every night.”
    â€œIf my husband . . .” She clammed up. Her problems with Edward were too painful to admit, especially to Whit.
    â€œIf Ed would do what?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œHas he mistreated you?” Worry in his eyes, Whit studied her. “You don’t have to put up with any sort of cruelty.”
    â€œSure am glad that norther’s blown over.”
    â€œI get the picture.” He picked up his fork, but set it down again. His worried eyes scrutinized her before he offered, “Gail, remember, you always have a home at Crosswind.”
    â€œYes, Papa,” she teased. Determined to change the subject, she asked, “Have you seen Mariah this morning?”
    â€œNo.” He scowled. “That McGuire woman told me you flapped your mouth about Joe.”
    She flushed. “She kept pressing me, and I. . . I–”
    â€œWhat exactly did you say?”
    Ashamed of herself for reneging on her promise, she replied, “I mentioned his trouble-making. About the fences, you know. That sort of thing.”
    His blue eyes turned to chipped ice while the muscles of his jaw tightened. He muttered a foul oath.
    Her mettle once more intact, she shot back, “Aren’t we in a pleasant mood this morning?”
    â€œDrink your coffee.”
    She spooned generous portions of raw brown sugar into her cup, adding a goodly amount of milk thereafter, and downed the revolting contents.
    â€œGood morning” came a cheerful, lilting greeting that beat against Gail’s head. Mariah McGuire had made her entrance.
    Whit didn’t say a word to her, and their observer caught the undercurrent of tension flowing between them. “ ’Morning,” Gail replied, watching Whit’s jaw work. “Sleep well?”
    â€œTight as a tick. And you?”
    â€œFine.”
    Mariah turned to Whit. “Good morning.”
    He growled something unintelligible to the woman he had gone to such pains to impress yesterday, Gail noted. How could he be unaware of her Wedgwood-green frock or of her thick wavy hair that was pulled to her nape in a loose bun? Okay, some men weren’t aware of fashion or hairstyles, but Whit wasn’t among them. How could he not notice a creamy complexion or a cameo-lovely face? And where were his manners?
    Gail put two and two together. He wasn’t oblivious to anything; he was trying to ignore Mariah. They’d had a tiff.
    After a moment, Mariah apparently gave up on Whit’s manners and seated herself on one of the high-backed oak chairs . . . well away from him.
    A serving girl brought forth a platter of fried eggs and burnt-edged sirloin to serve Mariah and to replenish Whit’s plate. The smell